Since 1955, it’s been an intersection of cynics and idealists, well-to-do oilmen and blue collar Joes — not to mention its share of drifters and troublemakers.

“I’ve seen plenty of guys thrown out that door right there head first onto the curb,” said a man named Rick, who slaps the hardwood bartop to make his next point. “I’ve seen poor men and millionaires and everyone in between sitting right here together at this bar.”

With a neatly trimmed beard, Carhartt shirt jacket and Colorado Rockies cap, he exuded the unpretentious air that is the hallmark of all great dives. It’s an atmosphere where patrons are uniquely at ease and just as likely to be oversharing as they are discreet. Rick, for instance, who’s been coming here since 1978, firmly refuses to share his last name. Yet he eagerly, and without solicitation, offers brow-raising anecdotes on his private life.

Conversations like these are good entertainment because the patrons are as eclectic as the decor.

The interior is lined with magenta-colored, filigree rose wallpaper. Framed prints of James Dean hang above the booths, along with an eye-catching painting of a topless Victorian woman in a billowing peacock hat. Pendant lights and neon beer signs cast a warm glow over the pool table, and for decades the same wrought-iron, fiddlebacked swivel stool has propped up tenders behind the bar.

“Not a whole lot has changed. That’s what I like about it,” said Rick with a wink and a long swig on a bottle of Coors.

Alas, nothing is forever. The Alibi Bar last month was sold.

The city manager, who oversees the sale of liquor licenses, said the new owner intends to move the establishment to a new location in short order. Hence, this storied location–which has served locals and sold package liquor from its drive up window since the Dwight D. Eisenhower administration — will be no more.

The new owner, Darin Homer, proprietor of Homax Oil in Casper, declined to speak with the Star-Tribune. Before the business changed hands, we caught up with the previous owner, a small-time oilman who asked just to be called Bob.

For the last 13 years, Bob arrived punctually at 6 am, when he’d start a pot of coffee and read the newspaper as the first wave of shift workers trickled in.

“I closed it one day for a funeral, but other than that I doubt if it’s ever closed. It’s never changed names or locations,” he said, reaching into a roll top cooler on a weekday morning in May, on what would be one of his last shifts as the morning bartender.

He has close-set blue eyes, a prominent nose and thinning silver hair. His soft demeanor belies a breadth of experience. He’s lived in dozens of US states working for energy companies. He parlayed that experience into a few small rigs of his own, which he mostly deployed in the shallow fields of Illinois. For a long time one of those rigs was parked right in the Alibi lot.

Bob doesn’t drink. He doesn’t smoke. When he purchased the Alibi, it wasn’t a passion project or for any romantic ideas about bar-ownership. It was a plain and simple business opportunity, he told the Star-Tribune. But over time he’d come to admire what he now thinks of as a special kind of multi-generational hub.

“Lot of times I see three generations in here together. Now my customers are all pissed off that I’m selling it. But I can’t choose the buyer,” he said, referring to worries that the new owner would take the bar elsewhere.

At stake is more than just a squat stucco building, regulars say, but rather the survival of a kind of place that for decades has been part of Wyoming’s cultural backbone. Daryl Riewe, a 20-year-long Alibi regular who arrives on a Raider motorcycle, says the Alibi stands apart amidst a wave of gentrification.

“This is one of the few places with real, down-to-earth people. People who want to actually connect and really learn about each other. Down-to-earth, good country people,” he said, raising a frosted glass of beer.

Moments later, returning from the bathroom, Riewe was stopped by a blonde woman wearing a beret. She introduced herself, and before long they’re laughing together like old friends. It’s spontaneous yet feels preordained, which keeps perfectly in character for a place like the Alibi.

“You see that? People aren’t like that at other places. You go anywhere else, they aren’t as comfortable and friendly,” Riewe said. “I’m worried that when this place moves it won’t be the same. You see other (liquor licenses) move and they changed drastically.”

For now the Alibi remains open. You can still grab a drink and play a game of pool. If you’re lucky you’ll stir up a good conversation with one of the regulars. After all, what makes a good dive isn’t the cheap drinks: it’s the people who drink them. Alas, before long, they won’t be drinking them here.